Méry, the dreamer

On your bank, newly born, A woman I saw with discretion Say, upon seeing my awakening: Do not disturb his sweet sleep, He is dreaming; and I was only being born! Later, in the full plains I plucked the flowering clover, Saying that Méry was dreaming; And when the poor mother halts To set me on the white stone That guards the edge of the brook, She still said, I think: My son is dreaming. At the college, Through hatred or through regal scorn! Friends went far away, Leaving me alone like a monk, To dream. And when the disquiet Of evil stained my youth, The crowd pointed its finger at me Saying: It is Méry, he must soon Dream again. And then, prudent, Nearly halfway along, I was judged as a writer, It is in vain, they said with humor, That he summons poetry In his verses, it is fantasy That comes at his call. Méry, Whatever he does, is only Méry. And when the final prayer Blessed what would be made dust, Attentive in my sepulcher, I heard A single word, I repeat it here: Dreamer! Ah, yes, upon the earth I dreamed; what harm is enclosed in this? A dream that did not end, And to which, here, I give a new beginning. J. Méry. n [1]

[See in the following poem the commentaries of Allan Kardec.] [2] [v.

Joseph Méry.]